The Way Back
by samurai frasier crane
Summary: This is basically just headcanon/me making shit up. Which I guess all fanfiction is, but anyway! It's set in 2000. Sam's dad dies and Rebecca accompanies him to the funeral. He sees Derek and meets his nephews. They go to the house he bought with Diane. There's ANGST and INTROSPECTION and fun for the whole family! Assuming your whole family loves angsty Cheers fanfiction.


_Note: Soooo, as mentioned, this is just pure headcanon-y extrapolation. I'm a sucker for dysfunctional family affairs, and dysfunctional love affairs, which of course makes me a total sucker for Sam freakin' Malone. He's my favorite Sam after Sam Brannan, a badass excommunicated Mormon who basically started the Gold Rush by riding a horse through San Francisco throwing gold dust everywhere and screaming that there was gold in the American River. So Sam Brannan beats him by a hair, but anyway... This is irrelevant. I hope the stuff I made up works for you. It's been awhile since I've actually watched Cheers - I'm trying to un-memorize it - but hopefully I still got their voices down okay. I don't know how this got so freaking long, but there ya go._

_Here's an excerpt from the poem I stole the title from because I do things like that! It's by Leonard Cohen.  
_

_I wait for you at an  
unexpected place in your journey  
like the rusted key  
or the feather you do not pick up  
until the way back  
after it is clear  
the remote and painful destination  
changed nothing in your life_

_Okay I'll shut up here's the freaking story.  
_

By ten o' clock the sun had peaked out from behind the roofs of the houses, and it was already hot. Rebecca sidled into the car, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and letting out a long sigh.

"Some day for a funeral," she said. Sam laughed dryly and shifted gears.

"It's only gonna get worse." He glanced at her quickly, then back to the road. "Thanks for coming, by the way."

"No sweat."

He almost smiled.

"I don't have anything better to do," she continued, slumping against the window. "It'll probably cheer me up."

Sam let out another sharp laugh, although there was nothing funny about the situation – that his father's funeral happened to fall on the same day as Don's wedding. Don's _third_ wedding – adding insult to injury and then insult again. Rebecca resented this more than the second wedding, and perhaps even more than being divorced in the first place; she seemed convinced that it cheapened her suffering in some way. The injury, of course, was being left, and the insult was being replaced, but being replaced a second time was something new, a kind of diminishment. It was, she told him, like being erased.

He'd told her not to think that way because it happened to everyone who'd ever been left behind anywhere. People didn't leave for nothing, they left for something new – for better or for worse. It happened to Carla, he'd said, reminding her of Eddie's funeral, when they called Mrs. LeBec and she wound up stepping forward with someone else. "It stinks," he said simply, "but it doesn't mean that Eddie didn't still love her."

"But who do you think Don loved more—me or the first trophy wife?"

He snorted. "Don't think about it like that. It's not a contest."

She arched an eyebrow, as if to say _look who's talking._

"Oh, fine. I meant, you. He loved you more. Who wouldn't?"

Derek started calling the bar two weeks ago, but Sam had just hooked up caller ID and he'd been ignoring it. The calls came every day, then twice a day, then every few hours, and everyone started giving him shit. "Why don't you see what he wants? Then maybe he'll stop." But the more Derek called, the more determined he was to ignore it. It became a kind of game for him, prolonging what had started to seem more or less inevitable. He hadn't talked to his brother for what – seventeen years? – and he couldn't think of anything Derek would say that he'd want to hear. As it turned out, he was right.

Carla was the one who finally took the call, even though he'd told them not to answer. She did it while he was in his office and by the time he ran out to stop her, the damage was already done.

"What the hell'd you do that for?"

She watched him uneasily, hanging up the receiver. "Sammy, that was your brother."

"I _know_ it was my brother."

"He said your dad's really sick. He wants you to come."

And so a new game began, now with Carla and the bar patrons as his opponents. He wasn't going to go. They all thought he should. The game ended less than a week later, and this time he won. He didn't feel like much of a winner. Rebecca had remained neutral throughout most of it – she was caught up in the Don drama – but when they got the news that his dad had died, she offered right away to go to the funeral with him. He guessed it had something to do with the timing, but didn't really care. Something told him he couldn't turn not-going-to-the-funeral into a third game, and he sure didn't want to go alone.

Even with the air conditioning on, the car was still hot. Rebecca hoisted her purse into her lap and held out a bag of truffles. "D'you want one?"

"No."

She popped one into her mouth, then dug out a pack of cigarettes. "You want one of these?"

"You know I don't smoke."

She finished chewing the truffles and clicked her lighter a few times before it ignited. "What the hell do you do when you're sad, then?"

"Jesus Christ, don't smoke that in my car."

"My husband is getting remarried!"

"This is my 'vette!"

"My husband is getting married for the _third_ time."

"He's not your husband anymore." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth; she blanched and bit down on the filter. He waited for her to whine or do something melodramatic, but she didn't, and that made it worse. "Hey, he can't make his marriages stick. He's unlucky in love, huh?"

She rolled her eyes and gave him a half smile, half grimace. Then she blew a puff of smoke in his face.

"You can smoke it," he relented, "but you better not get any ashes in here."

She opened the window. "What do you do when you're sad?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Drink. I'm not sad."

"You don't drink."

"Buy boats and sink them. I don't know. What the hell kind of question is that? I guess I don't do anything anymore."

For a few minutes they drove in silence. Rebecca finished her cigarette and resumed popping the truffles into her mouth. "So," she said finally. "I get to meet _Derek._"

"Yep."

"Is he married?"

Sam scowled. "Why do you care? I don't know if he's married."

"Jeez, I'm just asking. You don't know if he's married?"

"No, I do. He is. He sent me an invitation, I dunno, fifteen years ago."

"But you didn't go."

"Nope."

"I don't get how you do this," she said. "I hate my family too but I still go to their _weddings_. I went to my sister's. It was beautiful." Her voice broke; she was affecting her usual "anguished" tone, a kind of wail. "Her husband is rich." Sam said nothing, and so she continued. "When's the last time you talked to your brother, anyway?"

"Uh, 1983."

"1983?!" She gaped at him. "Sam, that's almost twenty years!"

He clenched his jaw. "Will you shut up? I don't get along with him, okay?"

"Does he have kids?"

"I don't know." He did know. Derek had three kids, two boys and a girl. He sent Christmas cards. Only the little girl looked like Derek. The boys were gangly, with dark hair and sharp, light eyes. If he squinted, if he blotted out the smiling parents with his thumb, he could imagine they were his – and did, infallibly, without being able to help it. Then he'd throw the card in the trash, disgusted with himself. "His kids aren't blonde," he told her. "Only one of them is."

"What?"

"He has a dog."

"You said you didn't know if he has kids."

"I lied," Sam said. "I forgot."

The service was long and slow. When they arrived, Derek came out to meet them first and pulled him into an awkward hug. Then he turned to Rebecca. "Is this your…" he began, but the words died in his throat. He was going to ask, Sam knew, if Rebecca was his wife, but had figured out mid-sentence that she wasn't. Then Derek's wife stepped outside and also hugged Sam (_I don't even know you!_ he thought) and posed the same half-question. He wondered what gave them away. Apparently some intangible, unseeable quality revealed that they weren't married, or maybe both of them had just noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Maybe they noticed that in a strange way, he and Rebecca looked too alike to be married – not physically, but that something in their demeanors screamed _Lonely Hearts Club_ instead of husband and wife.

Sam was relieved to see that Derek had aged. He looked tired and sad, not like in the Christmas cards, but that made sense – he'd been the one sitting up with their dying father for two weeks, and he'd been the one arranging the funeral. He was also, evidently, the executor of the will; he'd told Sam that over the phone, perhaps assuming that he wouldn't come otherwise. "I need to talk to you. You know, he left you some things."

Sam couldn't care less and was eager to let Derek know he wasn't that shallow. If Derek wanted to think of him as a jackass, he'd have to come up with another way to do it.

"Hey," Derek murmured, leading them into the church. "Do you want to say anything at the service?"

Sam only scowled at him until he looked away. Inside, he pulled Rebecca into one of the back pews. She leaned against him, which might have been nice if it wasn't a hundred degrees out, but he still didn't mind much; for a long time they had resigned themselves to discomfort. Derek read a poem at the end of his eulogy and Sam didn't listen to a word of it. He reached into Rebecca's purse and carefully unwrapped a truffle.

His father didn't have too many mourners, no more than twenty; he'd never been the type of guy to keep a lot of company. Derek had decided to hold the reception at his house – their old house. The light filtered through the windows in splashes on the tile floor and it struck Sam as eerie. He couldn't stop thinking that someone had just died in there.

"Is this where you grew up?" Rebecca asked him.

He nodded.

She eyed the platter of rolls and deli meats. "Do you want me to make you a sandwich?"

"No."

"Do you want a drink?"

"No."

"I'm going to make a sandwich."

Not until she stepped away did he realize how much he needed her there with him; without her company he felt exposed, impossibly alone in a room full of strangers. He started after her, but stopped when he felt a tug on his wrist.

"Hey."

Sam glanced down, the pair of eyes that met his uncomfortably like his own.

"So you're my Uncle Sam?"

"Um." He shuffled his feet, looking to Rebecca and back. "Yes."

"Where's your tophat?"

"I don't, uh…" The boy started to giggle and Sam trailed off, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. Rebecca returned with two sandwiches.

"I made you one anyway."

She handed it to him and absently he took it, still watching the boy. "What's your name?"

"You don't even know my _name?_ What kind of uncle are you?"

"Not a very good one." Sam took a bite of his sandwich. "So, are you gonna tell me?"

The boy gave him a twisted grin. "No."

Rebecca looked between the two of them, an amused expression on her face. She lifted the truffles from her bag. "I guess you don't want one of these, then…?"

The grin vanished and a look of urgency filled his eyes. "My name is Michael!"

"But how do we know you're telling the truth?" Sam teased.

"It really is! If you don't believe me, ask my dad. It's on my birth certificate and everything. Michael. Can I have one?"

"You can have two," Rebecca said.

He deftly unwrapped them and shoved both in his mouth at the same time. "This is so boring," he said to them, his words muffled by chewing. "This is the most boring funeral I've ever been to. I thought there was gonna be cake."

Sam started to laugh, but stopped as he noticed Derek approaching, the older of the two boys at his side.

"I got _candy_," Michael said to his brother.

"No, you didn't." At first the brother sounded accusatory, but then his expression softened. "Dad said this morning, you don't eat cake at funerals. Just birthdays."

"Uncle Sam," here Michael paused to gesture importantly at Sam, "gives us candy if we tell him our names."

The older boy studied Sam warily, as if not sure he bought it. "Robert," he said finally. Sam handed him two truffles and his pale eyes lit up.

Derek gave Sam an uneasy smile. "I see you've met my boys."

"Mine was red," Michael told Robert, showing him the wrapper.

"So what?"

"The red ones are better."

"How do you know?"

"They always are."

"Yes," Sam said.

"Do you, um…" Derek looked down at his shoes. "I don't want to keep you longer than you want to stay, so would you prefer if we talked now – about the will?"

"Oh." Between the discomfort of the day, the room, the situation, and then the strange experience of meeting his nephews, Sam had almost forgotten about the will. "I guess." He felt Rebecca reach out and squeeze his hand, and in that moment he felt a surge of gratitude towards her. He remembered Derek's half-question and thought: _Hell, she might as well be my wife_. It was odd, he thought, how he'd landed himself in their partnership, not in love with her but in a kind of fantasy—an imitation of domestic life with the same comfort and familiarity, the only difference being that neither could figure out a way to end the other's loneliness. She was like being alone with company. Since the news about Don's third marriage she had been spending the nights at his apartment more often than not; they watched TV until morning and fell asleep in his bed like children at a slumber party. Derek led him to the back of the house, where their father's office had been, and he was not surprised that she followed.

"So…" Derek settled himself at the desk, rifling through a stack of papers and looking uncomfortable. He tugged at his tie, beads of sweat visible along his neck. "Dad left you—"

"I don't care what he left me." Sam had hoped these words would carry weight, surprise Derek in some way, but he remained unperturbed – as if he had expected it.

"He left you this house," Derek finished. Sam felt Rebecca fidget at his side. He knew this excited her, the way anything with money excited her. She was funny in that way; she seemed to know she would never be rich and so imagined wealth as a solution to all problems. It was a quiet way of acknowledging that she didn't know how to solve any problems and had more or less given up trying.

"I don't care," Sam said again. "I already have a house."

Rebecca stiffened, glancing at him crookedly, but he avoided her eyes. Derek watched him, looking still more tired.

"Well," he said, "now you have two."

"I don't want two. I already have one."

"Sam," Rebecca said. "You have an apartment, not a house."

"I do have a house."

"No…" She seemed taken aback by this, unsure what he was playing at. He felt a prickle of irritation, wishing she would shut up and go along with him – she was there to support him, not make him look like an idiot or a liar, and besides… He did have a house.

"Just because I don't live in it doesn't mean I don't have it. I have a house."

"This is really irrelevant," Derek said.

"Sam, you don't have a house." He cast her a warning glance, but she met his eyes resolutely.

"I do too. Why would I say I have a house if I don't? Ask anyone at the bar. I bought it before I knew you." In truth, he didn't expect that anyone at the bar knew he still had a house – but they did know he'd had one. They knew a lot of things that he didn't talk about anymore.

Rebecca was good at picking up on clues – phrases like "before I knew you", just like he picked up on phrases like "when I worked for the corporation" – and he'd expected that to be enough to shut her up, but he hadn't expected the look of understanding that crossed between her and _Derek_. How the hell should Derek know what that meant? Had he pieced together Sam's entire life with only a few words and a few puzzle pieces from twenty years ago? Sam grimaced, thinking that it wouldn't be impossible. Derek had always been figuring things out when they seemed unknowable. He was probably some kind of genius. Sam's eyes fell on a framed photograph, one of the Christmas cards from a few years back, and thought: _He beats me at everything_.

Derek cleared his throat. "In order for me to transfer the deed," he said, "there are a few legal formalities."

"I don't care. I don't want it." Sam rose. "I'm going home."

Rebecca was on his heels as he started down the hall. "What are you doing? Take the damn house, think how much mon—"

"I have a house!"

"You—why does that even matter?"

He ignored her protestations as he stomped towards the front door, but then another voice sounded, stopping him in his tracks. "Uncle Sam?"

"Oh…" He turned around, feeling something burn in his gut as his eyes fell on his nephews. Awkwardly, he extended a hand to them. "It was, uh, really great to meet you kids. Me and Rebecca are going home now."

"Are you coming back?" Michael asked. Sam opened his mouth to answer, but then Derek arrived at the other end of the hall and the boys turned to him.

"It's not fair that _they_ get to leave, and we have to stay," Robert said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"This is boring!"

Sam started to laugh, feeling absurd, his stomach still burning until it almost hurt. "Hey, we'd take you along if we could." He'd said it unconsciously and flushed, but the boys didn't hear anything behind the words. They seized the window of opportunity.

"Dad, he said we can go with him."

"Can we please go?" Robert turned back to Sam. "Where are we going to go?"

"To my house," Sam said. It was the first place that came to mind; part of him wanted to prove to Rebecca and Derek that it was real, and a smaller part wanted to remind himself of the same thing. "We'll eat cake."

"Dad, you _have_ to let us go," Michael whined, tugging on Derek's wrist. For a moment, Sam and his brother stared at each other.

"You can pick them up at Cheers after this is over," Sam muttered finally. "If you're okay with it."

"I… Of course I am." A wide smile broke across Derek's face, and Sam looked away. He stepped outside without another word, Rebecca and his nephews close behind.

"Where's your house?" Michael asked him, once he'd started the car.

"It's in Boston," Sam said. "Half hour drive."

"What kind of cake do you have?"

"Whatever kind you want. We have to buy it. I don't have any cakes there."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't live there."

"Then how's it your house?"

"Because I own it."

Rebecca kept casting him strange, confused looks. "Sam," she said hesitantly. "If you have a house…why didn't you sell it to buy back the bar?"

"I can't." He stared straight ahead at the road. "The deed is in two names."

She said nothing, only squeezed his knee in a consoling sort of way, and they continued in silence, the boys chattering to each other in the back seat. As he drove he occupied himself with Rebecca's question, which he'd been considering for years without any luck: how to sell the house. He didn't know why he – why _they_ – still owned a damn house. He could never ask her; part of him hoped that one day she would ask him and make it easier, but he knew she never would. She didn't know any more than he did. It also wouldn't make it easier, because nothing between them was or could ever be easy.

For years he had imagined himself making the phone call and always got tripped up when he came to the part of the fantasy where she had to respond. He had no idea what she'd say; he was scared of hurting her and even more scared that she wouldn't be hurt. He was also scared of hearing her voice, never sure what it was capable of making him do.

He remembered what Rebecca said about time diminishing the value of suffering, about being replaced, and knew it wasn't true. Grief couldn't be shared; no departure resembles another. Diane could leave him, sure, but whatever she left him with – a house, a memory, whatever – that was his to keep.

They picked up a chocolate cake and a quart of chocolate ice cream, as per the boys' request. When Sam pulled into the driveway, Rebecca's mouth dropped open: not because the house was spectacular, because he knew it really wasn't, but because – he could tell – she still hadn't fully believed him. As he unlocked the door, she pressed her nose to the window.

"You really don't live here," she said.

"Nope."

The foyer was coated in dust; it had been years since he'd visited, and the dust flew up in flurries when they stepped inside. Rebecca coughed. "It's like a sandstorm!" Michael cried, stretching out his arms.

"It's snowing!" said Robert.

Sam guided them to the kitchen, furnished with a solitary table. The house was almost completely stripped bare, but he noticed a few touches he'd forgotten about – a vase on the mantle, a paperback book on the shelf – and wondered what else was still inside. He found two forks and three spoons in the drawer, but no plates or bowls. "Guess we'll just have to eat out of the containers," he said, doling out the silverware. The boys looked ecstatic at this prospect.

"You guys dig in," Sam said to his nephews, although they had already started. "I'm gonna look around."

Rebecca rose quietly and followed him into the bedroom, watching from the doorway as he opened the dresser. He found a few old baseball cards – from 1976, two of his teammates' and one of his – and the stack of Diane's letters. He picked them up, studied them briefly, and slid them into the pocket of his jacket. Then he took them out and put them back in the drawer, pocketing the baseball cards instead. He stepped towards the closet and saw it was empty, save for a lone woman's shoe. Inanely, he held it out to Rebecca. She put it into her purse, neither of them speaking, and they made their way back to the kitchen.

"Hey." Sam slapped the baseball cards onto the table. "You kids like baseball?"

"Yeah!" They bent over the cards. "Wow, that's you!" Sam smiled faintly.

"You can keep 'em."

"Thanks, Uncle Sam."

Sam took a fork and stabbed at the ice cream. The boys continued their conversation and he listened to it like pleasant white noise until Michael addressed him. "Uncle Sam, why do you have this house if you don't live in it?"

He felt the burning in his gut again. "I don't know," he said, almost alarmed at how hoarse his voice sounded.

"Why don't you sell it, then?"

"Because it's not just my house. I bought it with, um, my friend."

"But your friend doesn't live here either?"

"No," he said. "She doesn't."

"Well, that's dumb," Robert said, his small forehead creasing.

"It is dumb," Sam agreed. "That's a great way to put it."

"Can't both of you sell it?"

"You could give it to a homeless person," Michael suggested. "My dad says we should be nice to homeless people."

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't come up with anything to say.

"He can't sell it," Rebecca said. She took the shoe from her purse and laid it on the table, as if it were some kind of artifact, or a piece of evidence. "His friend left behind her shoe."

The boys found this very funny. "Her shoe!" Michael repeated.

"So she's just running around with one shoe on?" Robert asked.

"Exactly," Rebecca said. "How do you think she'd feel if she came back for the other one, and a homeless person was living here?"

"How long has she only had one shoe?"

"About fifteen years," Sam murmured.

"Fifteen years?! Why doesn't she come get it?"

"That's older than us!"

"She must be really stupid."

"Her foot must be cold."

Sam started to laugh, and laughed until his eyes burned like his stomach. The boys followed his lead and let out a series of shrieking giggles.

"It's not so easy," Rebecca said. "When you only have one shoe, it's hard to walk in a straight line. You just start going in circles."

This unleashed another round of hysterics from the boys. Sam sank back into his seat, grinning stupidly at the image. _So,_ he thought darkly, _maybe that's why she never came back. She's stuck going in circles. Like a three-legged dog._

"Still," Robert said, once the laughter had subsided. "I don't know how anyone could forget to put on one of their shoes."

"Maybe she didn't have time," Michael said. "Maybe she was being chased by a rhinoceros."

"There aren't rhinoceroses in Boston, stupid. Maybe she was being chased by an axe-murderer."

"It was probably an axe-murderer riding a rhinoceros," Sam said, and again they shrieked with laughter.

"Maybe," Michael said, "she just didn't have her, uh… What's that word?"

"Which word?" Robert asked.

"The one that dad uses when we don't do our chores or something."

"Priorities."

"Yeah, priorities! Maybe she just didn't have her _priorities_ straight."

On the drive to Cheers, his nephews kept coming up with theories – each more ridiculous than the last. "Hey," he said to them, pulling into his parking space. "If you guys ever figure out the real reason, I'll buy you a cake factory."

Derek arrived at seven, said a quick hello, and ushered the boys into his car. When the door shut Sam exhaled deeply, feeling relief well up in his chest. So that was that. It was over, and he wouldn't see Derek again until someone else dropped dead – and next time, it'd probably be one of them, anyway.

"Your brother sure is a great guy," Norm said.

"Uh, yeah."

"Why couldn't I have kids like that?" Carla griped. "They didn't even _try_ to set anything on fire while they were here."

He'd been starting for the office when the door opened again and he heard Derek's voice, felt goosebumps rise on his arms.

"Hey, he's back!" Norm called.

"Have a drink on us," Cliff said.

Derek smiled at them, then his eyes fell anxiously on Sam. "Thanks boys, but not tonight. I just wanted a word with my brother – if he'll oblige me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sure," he said, adding in a mocking tone, "I'll _oblige_ you."

They stepped into the office together. "I can't stay long," Derek said. "The boys are in the car."

"Yeah, I figured that out."

"I just, um, I wanted to thank you – for taking them today."

Sam slid into his chair, staring down at his desk. "You don't have to thank me for that. I like them."

"They like you too."

"I know."

"Sam…"

"So that's all you wanted to say?" Sam interrupted.

"Sam," Derek said again, his voice hesitant and sad.

"What?!"

"I'm… God, don't get mad when I say this. I'm worried about you."

"Well, you shouldn't be. I'm doing great. I have a great bar."

"I always feel like you're mad at me."

"I have a house."

"Can you please just talk to me, for _once_?"

"What's there to talk about?" Sam spat. "What, you're worried because I don't have a perfect little family like you? Maybe I didn't want one."

"Sam…"

"_What?_"

Derek sank onto the couch. "This is sort of strange… Don't get mad at me. But you know, I thought you were going to marry Diane Chambers."

Sam froze. Jesus Christ, how did Derek even remember Diane? _Because no one can ever forget about her,_ he thought bitterly. But he hadn't even been dating her back when they'd met. "Who?" he said feebly.

"You know who I'm talking about."

"No, sorry, it doesn't ring a bell."

"Your waitress. She was here last time I visited. I took her on a few dates. Remember?"

"I've had a lot of waitresses."

"Sam, shut up. I know you were engaged to her."

"I was—how?" He looked up from the desk, feeling small and weak as he met his brother's eyes. _He beats me at everything._

"Because she wrote to me," he said, "to tell me about it. She said not to come to the wedding because, well, she didn't think you really wanted me to, but she said I should know because we're family."

Sam gaped at him, feeling a resurgence of the now-familiar burning sensation in his gut. "Well," he said, "I didn't. Marry her, I mean."

"I knew that too."

"Jesus Christ! Do you know _everything?_"

Derek smiled faintly. "Not everything. But actually, I ran into her – maybe five years ago. She's working in Hollywood now, did you know that?"

"Yes."

"I'd been doing some entertainment law – it's a long story – but anyway, it turned out we had some acquaintances in common. I took her out for lunch."

"Well, bully for you."

"She's, uh… She's a remarkable woman."

Sam shrugged.

"I was so sorry to hear that, uh—"

"Why are you telling me this?" he interrupted. "Seriously, Derek, can you get lost? I don't care."

Derek ignored him. "She really loved you, Sam."

"Get out!"

"You know, even when _I_ was dating her – I had this feeling she was going to marry you. She's such a funny woman. She was trying so hard to convince herself that she liked me, and yet all she ever wanted to talk about was how much you annoyed her."

"Yeah." Sam rolled his eyes. "That sounds like _love_ to me."

"Love's a strange thing."

"I wouldn't know."

"If I were you," Derek said, "I wouldn't keep selling myself short."

"But you're not me."

"No. I'm not." His shoulders drooped and he let out a sigh. "Sam, thank you for taking my sons today – they had a wonderful time with you."

"I already said, it wasn't a problem."

"It would be so nice if, uh… I mean, if you wanted… If you could be part of their lives."

"Maybe," Sam mumbled. "Yeah. I could do that." He paused, thinking about the two boys; he really had liked them. "It's too bad they're brothers," he added. "They'll probably grow up to hate each other."

Derek bit his lip. "Sam, I've never hated you."

"Yeah, I know."

"Um… I guess I'll go." Derek started towards the door, but stopped midway. "Sam," he said uneasily. "If you want… I have her address."

"I already have it."

"Oh. Well, okay. Goodbye, Sam."

"Bye."

The door closed and Sam sank back in his chair, wondering if he should have taken the address. _No_, he answered inwardly: he'd been down that road too many times to expect it to lead anywhere. He thought about the lie he'd told – and how even as he'd spoken it, it hadn't seemed like one. He closed his eyes and saw the house again, the empty windows blinking back light, quietly alert, expectant. It looked sentient to him then: as if it knew its owners were lost and was resolutely waiting for them to come home again. He had her address. So did she. If the house could wait, he would too.


End file.
